


Fisher King

by Kendrix



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:14:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21932035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kendrix/pseuds/Kendrix
Summary: Melian had known this would happen; She'd tried to tell him, but he wouldn't listen... or perhaps, it was never in her power to make him understand.
Relationships: Elu Thingol | Elwë Singollo/Melian
Comments: 11
Kudos: 17





	Fisher King

The moment it happened, she knew, with a depth of understanding that left no room for doubt, all the stone-cold hard truth of it, and all its implication – A severed thread in the records of Vaire, a recurrent motif in the intricate arrays of glimmering notes that had suddenly ceased.

And as soon as she knew, she forgot wherever it was that she'd been up to that moment, and left vaguely-defined smudges of place somewhere in the vast halls of Menegroth to coalesce at the site of the slaughter, but even as she appeared, she knew that she was too late -

For she knew that what she'd felt could not have been the instant in which the fatal blow first connected, but rather, the severing of his very life itself, the very sharp snap of his spirit coming loose of its bonds.

But perhaps it still lingered here in that moment, floating above its old mansion:

There he lay, the once proud and unbowed elf-king, upon the floor of his treasury, his uncommonly tall stature, his sharp, severe features, long limbs toppled, pale hair spilled, his ornate royal robes soiled with his own blood and the silver royal circlet fallen onto the cobblestones like leaves in the autumn, or indeed the green boughs he'd set on it, some of which had come loose in the struggle.

Cutting with haughty voice he had announced that he'd ruled these woods as king since the distant dawn of the world, and that, indeed, he had, but there he lay nonetheless, beaten to death over a handful of baubles in a dispute borne of petty greed, in which the claim of neither side had much resembled righteousness, the majesty of an ancient, worthy existence brought to a common, base and ugly end; Judging by the grimace frozen on his lifeless face, he had not ceased to look at the star-jewel right until the moment he died; It was still clenched between his long, stiff fingers, spangling the detailed carvings on the cavern-walls with its divine radiance – just like none of the capital's splendor could hold up next to the primal, unfading light the likes of which these earthly regions never touched, the peace inside its walls had not survived its unparalleled lure.

 _The proud, stubborn fool_ -

She'd known this would happen; She'd tried to tell him, but he wouldn't listen... or perhaps, it was never in her power to make him understand.

The venerable king of Doriath was by no means lacking in discernment -

Shrewd he had been, and cautious to a fault, formidable in many ways, and, if anything, quickly moved to suspicion; There was a reason that his famed blade had been known as Aranrúth, the 'King's Wrath'. But eternal and immovable as he must have seemed to the likes of his much beleaguered law-son or even younger elven-princes who themselves had their frustrations with him, to his queen he was ever so evidently a creature of flesh, possessed of all its vices – it's not as if he didn't value her counsel or the greater sight and power allotted to her, but like many great men who had come after him and would continue to follow through the ages, he could not always see the truth, for even if she were to put it right before him, he'd still be looking at it through the lenses of his eyes, refracted through pride, distrust and obstinacy, and above all, his own surroundings and attachments.

He'd wanted above all to preserve that which was nearest and dearest to him, from his daughter to his kingdom, and at his side, his sorceress-queen had certainly helped him to accomplish that insofar as it was in her power, but ever since he had refused to part with that what was never his, or Feanor's, or anyone else's – No, in truth, since he had first thought of of that inauspicious quest, she had become quite aware that thought all the time they had spent together, he still looked upon the world from a vantage point that was in many ways disparate from hers:

In her creation, she had been been told only as much as she needed to fulfill the role laid out for her by the maker of all things, and she'd set out gladly to make her contribution to creation, knowing from the beginning that everything would happen as it must as the symphonies of great design unfolded tune by tune.

She saw no point in holding back what had been decided long ago for the purpose of higher ends -

And yet, she of all her kind must have known that there was a difference between thinking up the idea of a song, and actually performing it oneself, _performing,_ with your very own being and your very own voice, rather than merely playing a part as a singing instrument of fate, so that the song becomes part of you, and yourself, a part of the tale -

And she's never known this better than she knew it in this very moment.

No, she doesn't resort to anything as mortal-like as weeping – after all, she knows where he's going, and his destination has a clear material reality both in her memory and in the way that her senses encompass the world.

Instead, she kneels simply by his shattered, leaky vessel and sighs at the sight in her arms as she silently touches her forehead to his, recalling how once, long ago, the ivy grew high and fresh branches of her making wormed their way into the yet moonless, sunless sky as if to follow the intertwining of their fingers.

Once, at the dawn of the world, such a thing was possible, back when the passage of time was still a new and inexact business, but though the shadow of those days might be locked shut inside that jewel, even their aftermath was soon due to dissipate as a dream disintegrating into morning, and no such chronological lapses could be expected for today.

Once he forgot that light in an instant when he came across her in the glades, but that was back when it streamed into the skies all day without any indication that it would ever come to cease, before it left the world with only a remnant, much like the warmth left behind by his presence, which had long begun to fade.

She is only waiting now, until they are discovered, until the guards and attendants get their screams out or cover their mouths in horror, and then she will set down the shell he's long discarded and call for her daughter to be notified and for the young prince to be summoned.

For an instant, the image she had worn for so long lingers like smoke that is about to be blown away in the wind, and the last thought formed within could only be for her daughter - 

(Wherever it is that Beren will be taking her, the queen hopes that it will be in their fates to do better at understanding each other; But she also knows, most dearly of all, that being understood is no prerequisite for love. Because love, true love of whatever kind, isn't about what others can do _for_ you, but about the need, wish and desire to _give_ love yourself, and were it not to amount to anything more than a child lining endless white shores with brief, clumsy sandcastles to honor the deep velvet sea)

\- and then, when she believes her remaining affairs to be in order, she will pull back the veil, and _her_ veil, and _all_ veils that are now bereft of purpose.

All they will find is a discarded heap of robes and bangles abandoned on the floor.

All they will hear is a scattering of nightingales flying out from where once nothing could pass through.


End file.
